


Oyabun

by aloeverava



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), AsaNoya - Freeform, Depressed Sugawara Koushi, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Is Daichi Dead?, KuroKen - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Police!Shiratorizawa, Slow Burn Kagehina, Yakuza/Mafia AU, and i mean not in a good way, daichi is big boi, daisuga - Freeform, dw tho it gets better, established relationship(s) - Freeform, happy pride lol, oops i hurt suga, ushijima can suck my left tit, who gave hinata a glock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24497794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloeverava/pseuds/aloeverava
Summary: One year ago, they were forced into hiding. One year ago, a fire burned every last trace of them off the face of the earth. One year ago, the Yakuza began to plot their revenge.One year ago, Hinata Shoyo had everything taken from him. Driven by an oath to wreak vengeance on one man, he answers the mysterious call of one Kiyoko Shimizu, who promises to help settle his score.One year ago, Kageyama Tobio threw away a promising future as Japan's Police Commissioner, succumbing to the doubts of the public. "Once a king, always a king," they said. Just as he's learned to manage the guilt, a piece of his past comes back to haunt him in the form of a fiery-headed boy.One year ago, Sugawara Koushi lost a part of himself. He's been looking for him ever since.One year ago, Daichi died.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi
Comments: 16
Kudos: 33





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Elements of this AU are heavily based on the real-life Yakuza, including the name "Yakuza" itself, of course. But I want to say that this is a work of fiction, and therefore, not everything will be accurate. I'm applying many of the same concepts here, but I do not claim this work to be a representation of the actual Japanese Yakuza or any other crime syndicate, for that matter.

_**Miyagi** _

_**Twelve months ago to date.** _

_**01:30.**_

The room smells like sawdust and manure, and is barren save for a foldout table and a rusting metal chair. The air is freezing, making the hairs on the back of Daichi’s neck stand as straight as his spine. He sits in the rusted metal chair, shoulders back, chin up, boring holes through the opposite wall. A naked bulb flickers as it hangs from the ceiling, swinging slightly. A bit cliché, in Daichi’s opinion. His left hand mindlessly traces the kanji tattooed onto the back of his right hand as he waits. It’s been nearly three hours; _any minute now_ , he thinks.

Four faint beeps, then the whirring of a lock mechanism sounds on the other side of the glass. This place was an abandoned hostel just hours ago; now it was an abandoned hostel with fancy locks on the doors. After all, measures had to be taken to secure a criminal as dangerous as the _Oyabun*._

The door opens, and Commissioner Ushijima steps inside. Built stronger than the four walls that surround them, the man is a formidable presence. In a somewhat fitting manner, he is dressed similarly to Daichi, though the fabric of his suit has a deep purple tint as opposed to the inky black of Daichi’s. The latter smiles, as if greeting an old friend.

“Commissioner.”

Ushijima says nothing in reply, instead walking a slow circle around the man in handcuffs, observing him. The sight would resemble a lion stalking its prey, except that Daichi was just as much the predator as Ushijima was, even with his hands bound together.

The Commissioner stops directly in front of the man and swiftly pulls out his gun, aiming for the middle of the other man’s forehead. Daichi only raises an eyebrow in response as he maintains eye contact over the barrel.

“Not very professional of you, Ushijima,” Daichi muses, gesturing not just to the gun, but to their filthy surroundings as a whole. “Trying to play bad cop today?”

“Speak.” He demands, cocking the gun.

“I am.”

“I’m not playing games today, _Oyabun_.”

“Darn, I knew you never looked like much fun,” Daichi sighs in mock disappointment. When Ushijima doesn’t reply, he nonchalantly adds, “Not going to shoot me, are you?”

“...No.” At this, Daichi’s expression falters a fraction in genuine surprise. He quickly recovers, though, schooling his features to convey apathy once more.

“And why is that?” He asks, watching Ushijima with a new found interest. The Commissioner offers no reply. Instead, the hand holding the gun twitches, the motions so fast Daichi almost misses them. The sound, however, was impossible to have imagined.

The gun goes off twice, the shots mere milliseconds apart, leaving Daichi’s ears ringing. Even with the silencer, the sound is deafening in the small room. He blinks at the sizzling mess in opposite corners of the ceiling where the cameras once were. Blood roars in his ears and adrenaline courses through his veins—a pavlovian reaction of sorts to the sound of gunshots. More than anything, though, he is confused. He had expected a forceful interrogation, to have sat there for the next few hours repeating, “I won’t answer without my lawyer,” knowing Shiratorizawa didn’t have anything concrete against him, as always.

Ushijima tosses the gun to the floor. Daichi stares, lip parted in shock as it clatters to the ground.

The Commissioner places a neatly folded swiss army knife and a plastic bag containing a pink white orb the size of a gumball onto the table. The latter contains bits of flesh-like entrails and blood in the bag; it makes a squelching noise as Ushijima pokes at it with a self-satisfied smirk. Daichi can’t help it when his face twists in disgust. He’s seen plenty of organs in his line of work, but eyeballs had always been an especially gruesome sight for him.

“What the fuck is this?” He asks. Ushijima only replies with more infuriating silence, instead continuing to prod the organ until it rolls so that the hazel brown iris is staring through the plastic. _No._

“Look familiar?” Ushijima finally asks. Only now does his expression give way; the impassivity in his eyes replaced with a sinister smile.

The block of lead in his stomach grows impossibly heavier when he sees the blood caked under Ushijima’s fingernails. 

Ushijima holds out the folded knife to Daichi.

Hands shaking ever so slightly, he reaches for the swiss army knife, rattling the chains encircling his wrists. Sure enough, the blade is encrusted in dried blood— no, some of it is still fresh, he realizes. 

His stomach lurches. _No,_ he thinks. _No, please, God, no—_

“How do I know this isn’t some stupid trick?” Daichi asks, his voice much cooler than the rest of him. If this man had so much as _touched_ Suga, he was going to have his head. Ushijima only grins wider.

“You’ll just have to trust me.”

“Or what? Say you did enucleate my—or even kill— my _saiko-komon*._ That’s just murder, we haven’t been charged with anything.” Daichi seems to regain his confidence as he speaks, voicing his thoughts out loud. This had to be a pathetic attempt at a scare tactic, he decides. What Ushijima does next, though, bewilders him yet again, sweeping his newfound confidence out from under him.

The Commissioner pulls out a pair of satin gloves from the inside of his blazer. Fitting them onto his hands, he reaches into his other pocket and retrieves a small pistol. Daichi’s eyes widen, recognizing the orange detailing on the handle.

Then, Ushijima raises the barrel to his own temple.

“In approximately two minutes and thirty six seconds, support will arrive, having received an SOS signal from my radio. I’m going to offer you two choices, one of which involves me pulling this trigger. If you can’t make your decision by then, well—” He gestures to the organ lying on the table. “We can take his heart too.”

* * *

_**Tokyo** _

_**02:10.** _

“Step on it, Kenma!”

“Yup.”

Kuroo barely manages to slam the door shut before the van accelerates with a screech, nearly toppling out in the process. He curses as the vehicle drives over a pothole, making his head slam into the ceiling. His own well being was the least of his worries right now, however.

“Oi, extra cargo, remember?” Kuroo barks, slightly harsher than he means to. He pulls Suga’s barely conscious body into his lap, trying to assess the damage in the dark of the jostling van. He hopes he didn’t worsen the boy’s injuries when he (rather ungraciously) tossed them both into the backseat.

“Sorry,” Kenma says, glancing at Suga through the rearview mirror.  
“Eyes on the road,” Is Kuroo’s reply.

The blond only grunts in response, dutifully redirecting his gaze.

Kuroo scans for any superficial injuries as best he can without moving the boy too suddenly. He had only done a quick once-over to make sure Suga was in one piece before tossing him over his shoulder and running like hell. The passing streetlights briefly illuminate his appearance; Kuroo can barely recognize the mess of matted hair, bruised flesh, and blood.

“Suga-san, you with us?”

His face scrunches up in reply, mumbling something incoherent.

His most noticeable injury is his left eye, over which a large spot of dark crimson stains the bandages swathing his head. His fingertips are bloodied and bandaged similarly, and with a start of horror, Kuroo realizes his fingernails have been pulled off.

He feels Kenma’s implorizing gaze from the driver’s seat, but ignores him for the time being. Gingerly, he lowers his ear to the boy’s mouth, exhaling a sigh of relief when he feels faint but steady breaths.

“Idiot,” Kenma breathes. “‘Course he’s alive. You think that fucker would break under Tendou?” The comment brings a smirk to Kuroo’s face.

“No way in hell,” he agrees. Turning his attention back to Suga, he gently shakes his shoulders, trying to wake him again. “Oi, Suga-san, can you hear me?”

Suga’s features wrinkle in pain again, his visible eye tightly shut. He mutters something again, too low to hear over the rumbling of the engine. Kuroo continues to examine for any more wounds, feeling around his head for any bumps in case of a concussion.

“You gotta speak up, man,” He says, not unkindly.

“Hurts,” Suga finally rasps.

“Where?” Kuroo asks, prodding his extremities to find the source of pain.

“My eye,” he groans, bringing a hand to the bloodstain. Kuroo gently pries it away.

“Hey, stab wounds can be pretty nasty, you don’t want that getting infected,” He gently chides. Suga, too weak to protest, lets his hand drop against his chest.

A white and red plastic box slides onto the floor of the backseat. Kuroo looks up to see Kenma leaning over the passenger side, closing the glove compartment with one hand, the other lazily gripping the steering wheel.

“Kenma, we’ve talked about this,” Kuro glares into the rearview mirror. “No one-handed steering when you’re going faster than a hundred.” He chides, opening up the first aid kit. He finds a pair of nitrile gloves and turns his attention back to Suga.

“Tch. We’re only going at ninety,” The driver replies. “Looks like Ushijima’s goons have given up, anyways,” He adds with a glance into the side mirror. Sure enough, the nondescript black SUVs have retreated further into the distance. (Sirens and lights would have alerted regular civilians, and Shiratorizawa couldn’t have that.)

Kuroo is both relieved and comforted at the loss of their tail. Kenma may have been driving at ungodly speeds, but few things could throw off the Shiratorizawa Police Force. They must have someone— or something— better to pursue. The two Nekoma leaders are thinking of the same person, but an unspoken agreement says mentioning his name in front of Suga right now was against their better judgement.

“Gonna have to disinfect that eye. This might sting,” Kuroo murmurs, dousing a cloth in alcohol. Suga only grunts in reply. Carefully, Kuroo unwinds the gauze wrapped around the boy’s head.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw next. He audibly gasps at the sight before him.

Where Suga’s left eye should have been, there lies a pool of blood, some of it drying at the edges of his eye socket. The muscle that should have been connected to an eyeball twitches as his working eye follows the man’s face above him.

Kuroo has seen people with missing eyes before. An area of pinkish-white flesh is all that’s left behind, the muscles behind the socket still intact and smoothed over. But he’s never seen the immediate aftermath of something like this—so gruesome, and so crudely done. He suppresses a gag, forgetting to mask his horror for a moment.

“Kuroo-san?” Suga asks weakly. “C-Could you take off the rest of the bandages? I still c-can’t see through this eye,” He whispers, his voice small and afraid. His words hold an unspoken plea. _Please tell me it isn’t what I think it is. Please don’t let me be right._

Kuroo stares at the blood seeping out of the wound, carving rivers of red down the side of Suga’s face. His hands shake as drops the bloodied gauze to fumble through the first-aid kit, searching for the items he needs.

“Kuroo-san?” Suga sounds so _scared_. Kuroo’s hands shake so much that he almost stabs himself with the syringe as he fills it with the contents of the vial.

“Kenma, your lighter.”

“What—”

“Kenma, _hurry_.”

“Kuroo-san?!”

“Fine, here—”

“I’m sorry, Suga,” Kuroo says, plunging the syringe into the side of his neck. It only takes a moment before his protests quiet and he falls completely limp in Kuroo’s lap.

“Kuroo, what the fuck are you going to do with that?”

“Kenma, remember when Yaku cut himself on the head and wouldn’t stop bleeding?”

“Yeah,” he answers hesitantly.

“And how you…” He trails off. Kenma’s eyes narrow; he doesn’t seem to like the sound of this.

“Kuroo, where is Suga-san hurt?”

“Do blood vessels in the eye clog?”

“Y-You mean they—”

“That fucking psycho took his eye, Kenma.”

A beat.

“I— I don’t know, but you’ve never cauterized a wound before—”

“You have.”

Kenma’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.

“Kenma, you saved Lev’s life that time.”

“It was a fluke—”

“It wasn’t.”

“Fuck,” He says softly. Kuroo lifts his head to tell Kenma they’re running out of time, only to realize Kenma isn’t talking about whether or not to perform emergency surgery.

Kuroo follows his line of sight in the rearview mirror. “Fuck,” He echoes as Kenma makes a sharp turn. Looks like Shratorizawa hadn’t quite given up.

Now the cars behind them blare loudly with the approaching sounds of sirens, their blue and red flashing offensively bright. They both know what this meant—Tendou of all people was most likely behind the wheel. If the police were confident enough in themselves that they’d let such a deranged monster take charge, they were in deep shit this time around.

“Kuroo.” The engine revs even louder; Kenma is pushing the van to its limits now.

“Yeah?” He replies, warily eyeing the gaining SUVs through the back window.

“ _Oyabun_ help me, if you kill Suga-san—”

“It’ll be fine. I have you,” Kuroo says with matter-of-fact confidence, smiling at Kenma’s anxious eyes in the mirror. He decidedly ignores Kenma’s muttered “fucking dumbass” as he draws a blade from his belt.

“Now talk me through this, Kenma.”


	2. 893

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hinata spends the anniversary of his family's death with a stranger. Kageyama seeks out his brother for answers, only to end up with more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is 5:42 am. i have not slept. obv, this is not beta read lolol
> 
> enjoy!

**Miyagi Memorial Gardens**

**10:24**

Hinata has never seen anyone visit the grave beside his family’s.

The headstone is strange, lacking kanji or romanized letters, engraved with just three digits— 893. A single person buried next to a family of three, it looks lonely, even a bit ominous, next to the Hinatas', which dons the family name as well as Natsu’s and his parents’ given names. So when he comes to change out the flowers in front of his family’s grave, which is rather often, he takes one out of the bouquet and lays it on top of 893’s grave.

It saddens Hinata to never see anyone visit 893, which is why he prays for them, whoever they may be, along with his own family. Something else made him pity whoever it was buried there, too, something he couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the fact that 893 had died so closely, possibly on the same day, as his family. Though 893’s grave marker makes it impossible to tell when he died, Hinata remembers seeing the headstone for the first time just several days after his family’s memorial service.

There was a strange feeling of connection delved from the thought that the four lives ended so close together. Someone, somewhere, could have been suffering for the same amount of time he was. That is, if 893 was survived by someone. Hinata liked to imagine that there was at least one living person who remembered 893, that whoever was grieving them was just hurting too much to visit. He understood what that felt like, after all. There was a period in time, a month after the incident, during which he'd pull up to the cemetery gates only to turn the car around, the air in his lungs suddenly acrid and his heart feeling like it was going to burst out of his chest. But now that time was nearly a year behind him.

In fact, today is the first anniversary of his family's death.

Hinata decides to try to act like this is any other visit; there was no use in making a spectacle out of an already depressing affair. So today, he brings his family an assortment of peonies, Natsu’s favorite. He remembers the pink peony plants in the window boxes of their old house, how his little sister would always sit by the sill with the most in bloom during her rare moments of calm. He remembers how the light in her eyes shone every spring when they began to blossom, how his mother would chide her to be patient as she snipped the dead leaves, how there was blood on the peonies when—

“Why did you do that?” Hinata jumps at the sound of an unfamiliar whisper, whirling around to see a man standing about a yard away. He looks like the word “corporate,” dressed in a black turtleneck, gray slacks that match the color of his hair, and expensive-looking dress shoes. In the distance, Hinata can see a sleek black BMW parked behind his own ratty Jeep. Everything about this man screams _money_ ; he seems like he could own the chain of cafes Hinata works at.

What draws his attention, though, is the eyepatch covering the man’s left eye, a stark comparison to his pale skin. Hinata quickly averts his gaze, realizing he had begun to stare.

“D-Do what?” He asks. The man steps closer, gesturing to the peony on 893’s grave. 

“That.”

“Are you here to visit 893?” He blurts out rather than answering.

The silver-haired man doesn’t answer his question either, approaching the grave until he stops where the body’s feet would be. He stares at the headstone with a faraway look in his eyes.

Upon closer inspection, Hinata observes that this man is _objectively_ attractive. Even with the eye patch, the symmetry in his features was plain to see. He looked like the sort of person to help your grandmother across the street, the textbook boy next door if you put him in jeans and a hoodie. But something about him told Hinata he was too nice for his own good, that the world had hurt him. The look in his eyes— _eye_ —made it seem like he wished he were the one six feet under. Hinata thinks he has never seen someone so sad and happy-looking at the same time.

“I suppose so.” The man speaks so softly, Hinata wouldn’t have been sure he heard him had he not watched his lips move.

“Oh.” Hinata doesn’t know what that means but decides not to question him. He looks back to the man, who seems miles away. He feels the urge to explain himself, his mouth moving before his brain, even if he isn’t paying Hinata any attention. “I, uh, felt kind of bad. I come here pretty often and no one ever seems to visit, so...” He trails off, suddenly aware of how stupid he must sound. He redirects his eyes to the Hinata headstone, a million questions burning on his tongue but none of them seeming like they wouldn’t come out as insensitive.

“That’s nice of you,” Hinata turns to see the man smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He only nods and turns away, not trusting himself to speak. He was sure he’d end up offending or annoying the man if he opened his mouth again.

After a moment, he kneels beside Hinata. The two mourners stare ahead at the headstones, neither of them speaking. In the distance, the faint sound of a car’s wheels peeling away on the gravel road. The whistle of the wind, the chirping of cicadas. Silence. Then thunder.

Neither of them moves as it begins to pour.

After sometime between a few minutes and an eternity, the rain slows to a drizzle, and so do their tears.

“His name is Daichi,” The man whispers.

Hinata doesn’t bother correcting the “is” to “was.”

* * *

**Sakanoshita Dim Sum**

**12:22**

“Ka-ge-ya-ma.”

“What.”

“You got a little something there.” Kageyama’s eyes cross as they stare down at Oikawa’s finger, which hovers just beneath his face. He makes a sputtering noise when it flicks upwards,, hitting his lips and nose.

“You’re such a child,” He glares.

Oikawa only hums in reply. He grins and leans back, tilting the chair onto its back legs. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he observes the man before him. He hasn’t changed much since Oikawa last saw him, at least not on the surface. Same black hair and pissy expression, same slight yet lean figure. Gone is the police uniform, of course, but plainclothes seem to suit him better. He seems more at ease, like he isn’t itching to crawl out of his skin. And when Oikawa looks harder, he notices the lack of tension in his shoulders, as if he’s stopped carrying the weight of the world on them.

“What’re you staring at?” Kageyama mutters, uncomfortably shifting his eyes from Oikawa’s gaze to the teacup in front of him. He seems to fold in on himself, fingers cradling the fine china, the rest of him hunched over it. Every now and then, he catches a stranger’s eye and glares seemingly at random. _Still the same socially awkward brat, then_ , Oikawa thinks.

“...You look good.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nevermind.” Oikawa dismisses with a wave of his hand. “I mean, you’ll never come close to _this_ ,” he smirks, running a hand over his hair. In the process, he nearly loses balance in his chair, which Kageyama snickers at. Grumbling as he returns all four legs of the chair to the ground, he leans forward, forearms braced on the table. Kageyama withers under his gaze—wide, brown eyes seem to suddenly bore into his soul. He unconsciously presses his back into the cushioned chair to put distance between their noses. “So, what are we doing here, my dear brother? Sadly, I doubt you broke your year-long silence to catch up.” Kageyama makes a face of distaste before replying.

“...I want in.”

Oikawa blinks at him, unbelieving. Then he throws his head back, roaring with laughter. He is either painfully oblivious of the glares from guests seated at neighboring tables, or just doesn’t care. Probably the latter. Wiping a tear from his eye, he squints at Kageyama. “I missed your sense of humor, Kags.”

“What’s so funny?” He cocks his head to the side, expression quizzical. Slowly, Oikawa’s smile melts.

“I— You mean to tell me that Mr. I’m-Making-A-Name-For-Myself has finally come crawling back?” He scoffs. “You’re unbelievable. You think quitting that government job of yours was some sort of redemption?”

Kageyama huffs out something rude under his breath. “I don’t want anything from this family’s stupid business, you idiot.” he gestures to the man sitting across from him. “I mean, look how that turned out,” He sneers.

“Hey,” Oikawa says, warning in his voice. “Wouldn’t be talking if I were you, _King_.” Kageyama bristles, draining the rest of his tea.

“What I mean is _this_.” In a flash, he grabs Oikawa’s left wrist and flips it over, bringing the bottom of his teacup to press against the flesh there.

“Ow, what the fuck?!” Oikawa hisses at the hot ceramic, immediately jerking his arm back. Kageyama holds steady, though, tightening his grip for just a second, just enough to watch Oikawa’s skin until he sees the telltale black lines of kanji appear.

“Interesting,” He murmurs, letting his grip slacken. Oikawa tries to discreetly blow on his wrist as he cradles it to his chest, looking at the man across from him warily. “Isn’t thermochromic tattoo ink dangerous?” Kageyama asks.

“Of course not— Hold on, how did you— how much do you know, exactly?”

“I know enough. I want in.”

“Wait, wait, how?”

Kageyama sighs impatiently. “Does it matter? I’ll do whatever. Just— Just make me a part of your gang or whatever.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oikawa huffs, crossing his arms. His initial surprise is gone for the most part, replaced by determined confidentiality about the topic at hand.

“You think I haven’t known you’re more than some stupid rich CEO for the last year?”

“Wow, ‘stupid rich?’ I have to say that I am flattered, Ka—”

“Cut the crap. If you say no, I’ll just find another member.”

Oikawa regards him with a glint of smugness in his eye. “Hmm, so am I the only one you know of, then?”

“...Yes.” Kageyama says with some difficulty. Oikawa holds his gaze for a long moment before he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes off his glasses and uses the handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket to polish his lenses as he speaks.

“First of all, the Yakuza is an internationally revered syndicate, not a _gang_ ,” he says with an indignant huff. “It seems like you’ve figured this out already, but evidently, not all of us are dead. Second, you’re a retired fucking cop. _Oyabun_ knows what the hell you’ve been for the past year, but there is no way in hell Suga would— there’s no way you’re joining the Yakuza, period. How do we know you still aren’t working under Ushijima?” He perches the half-rimmed spectacles back onto his nose carefully with both hands.

“Wait, Suga as in Sugawara Koushi? The _saiko-kom—_ ”

“Shut up,” Oikawa’s eyes suddenly go wide, and he leans across the table to clamp a hand over Kageyama’s mouth. He makes a _mmph!_ noise in protest, feeling Oikawa’s other hand reach around the nape of his neck. Fingers seem to search for something until Kageyama feels a sharp prick in his skin—  
“Ow!” He glares, rubbing the site of the pain. It was rapidly fading, but not appreciated, still. The skin seems unmarred and smooth save for a bit of blood from what Kageyama can feel; his brow furrows, puzzled.

Oikawa sits back, suddenly intrigued by the object in his fingers. In one hand, he holds a silver pellet the size of his pinky nail coated in Kageyama’s blood. The other taps at the frame of his glasses as he examines it in quiet focus. Kageyama realizes with a start that tiny blue lines and numbers dance across the surface of the lenses. Oikawa’s eyes seem to follow the characters on the glass as concern grows in his expression.

“Oikawa, what the fuck is that? And why was it in me?”

“We have to go,” Is all he says. He drops the object into the teapot and takes it with him as he abruptly stands. When Kageyama doesn’t immediately follow, he grabs his arm and all but drags him out of his chair. He maneuvers through the tables and food carts, ignoring the customers and Kageyama’s protests.

“What _is_ that thing? And isn’t the exit the other way? Where the fuck are you taking me?”

“We can’t leave that way. I’ll explain when we get there,” Oikawa shortly replies.

“Get where?”

“Shut up,” He stomps on Kageyama’s toes as they stop in front of the service counter. A thin, bespectacled man looks up from the cash register nervously. He looks at the teapot in Oikawa’s hand with a questioning glance.

“Uh, hi, if you’d like a refill, one of our waiters can—”

“Listen,” Oikawa interrupts. His eyes flick down to the crooked nametag pinned to his lapel. “ _Takeda_. I need to speak to the manager.” 

“A-Ah, I’m sorry, but that isn’t possible,” He squeaks. Oikawa feels a little bad for being so rude, but the poor man’s feelings were the least of his concerns right now.

“I need to speak to Ukai, now.” He demands. “Or we might have a problem.” He places both palms onto the counter with the teapot, staring into Takeda’s eyes. The man stares right back, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple.

Suddenly straightening up, Takeda puts a surprising amount of resolve in his voice. “I’m afraid that I can’t make that happen.”

Oikawa looks seconds away from punching something. “Listen, just tell him the Seijou _Wakagashira_ needs to speak with him,” Takeda’s eyes narrow, seeming to seriously consider Oikawa now. After a moment, he speaks.

“Will you pay with cash or card?” Kageyama looks at him, bewildered, but Oikawa doesn’t miss a beat.

“Cash.”

“Percent tip?”

“Eight point nine three.” Takeda nods, seeming to approve of Oikawa. Kageyama looks between the two, slowly trying to put the pieces together.

“Seijou, you said?”

“Yes. Look, this is urgent, can I just—”

“Then you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?” Oikawa’s frustration is forgotten for a moment.

It seems that the next words pain Takeda to say. “Ukai… Ukai is no longer the Karasuno _Wakagashira_. He hasn’t been, not since—” Seeing the shock on Oikawa’s face, he quickly says, “He’s—He’s alive! Just… After Daichi, he… left.”

“Oh. Then who…?”

“I am,” Takeda replies, smiling genially. Both Oikawa and Kageyama can’t help but stare in dumbfounded surprise for a second. “I know I don’t seem like the type, but the Karasuno family has some amazing veterans to help me out,” He says sheepishly.

Oikawa has so, so many questions right now, but disregards them for the teapot sitting on the counter and his clueless younger brother, who stands helplessly next to them.

“Well, my apologies for my rudeness, Takeda-san,” he says, bowing. “I know Seijou has distanced themselves, but it is no excuse for the way I acted, especially to a fellow _Wakagashira_.” Kageyama’s eyes widen as he watches his brother’s rare show of respect. It wasn’t often you saw Oikawa Tooru compliment someone other than his own reflection. Kageyama hastily bows to Takeda as well.

“Ah, no need for that! Really, it’s fine, don’t mind, don’t mind!” The man seems to regain his easily flustered nature back quickly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “Agents from Seijou are always welcome here. What can I do for you two?”

Oikawa pushes the teapot across the granite countertop.

“I trust that your implants specialist is still around?”  
“Kiyoko-chan? I’m afraid she’s out on an errand, but Yachi-chan is here.”

“Yachi?” Oikawa cocks his head to the side, uncannily resembling Kageyama from earlier.

“She’s new, but she can be trusted,” Takeda assures.

“Oh,” Oikawa says. “Well, in that case, lead us to her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you confused? yeah, me too. trying to plan this au out with sticky notes and string on my wall is proving to be a less-than-brilliant idea. i promise this is going somewhere :))
> 
> kudos and comments provide me w serotonin :-)
> 
> tumblr: hairbleachwhore  
> twitter: glutenfreeroach


	3. Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asahi has a surprise visitor. Hinata follows a really pretty girl underground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a big fat thank you to zahra  
>  for beta reading this chapter !

**Karasuno Apartment Complex, Unit #4**

**11:23**

Asahi stares at the man on his doorstep, questioning whether he is just an illusion of the dark, thundering skies behind him. Both the guest’s unannounced arrival and the sight of such a familiar face after a long time render him speechless for a moment, staring uncomprehendingly.

Suga laughs gently, hugging his arms, slightly self-conscious to be standing before someone he hasn’t seen in so long. 

“Hey, Asahi-kun.”

“S-Suga! Uh, hi, oh my goodness, you’re soaking wet, come in, come in!” Asahi snaps out of his reverie, standing aside to let him in.

Suga graciously accepts his offer, hastily taking off his shoes beside the doormat before stepping into the warm—and more importantly, dry—apartment.

“Nice place,” Suga smiles, turning in one spot as water drips off of his clothes and hair.

“Th-Thanks,” He replies, clasping his hands awkwardly. “Uh, let me get you a towel.”

“Sure…” Suga trails off, watching Asahi’s figure all but sprint away from him. For a moment, he reconsiders his choice coming here. He had let his feet carry him here mindlessly, and was knocking before he knew it—force of habit, he supposed. It didn’t matter, now, though. He was already here and taking off would probably confuse Asahi more. As he waits for him to return, Suga takes in his surroundings.

The small flat is warm and cozy and clean; he feels bad for getting rainwater on the hardwood floor. Mismatched but somehow fitting furniture decorates the living room to his right, and a tidy kitchen sparkles to his left.

This place is the physical embodiment of Asahi, Suga thinks. Of course, hints of Noya are present, too, if you look for them. Suga is relieved to see that not much has changed, after all. The stack of video games in the corner of the living room and the anime poster tacked onto the wall behind the couch say that Noya was still here.

The corners of Suga’s mouth lift when he spots a familiar photo on the fireplace mantle. Noya and Asahi sit on one side of the booth, Suga and Daichi on the other, a steaming hot pot and various side dishes littering the table between them.  _ N-Noya, be careful, you arm might hit the— Chill , babe, it’s just a selfie! Everyone, say “cheese!” _

The memory tugs at the edges of a wound that has only barely begun to scab over; Suga looks away before it can rip him open once again.

“Sorry, this is the only one I could find,” Asahi says, reappearing in the hallway. He takes the pink and green striped towel gratefully.

“Thank you so much, Asahi.” They stand there for a moment, neither making eye contact. Asahi’s gaze flits from the wall to the powered off TV to the kitchen counter; Suga’s sticks to the stray pieces of hair escaping Asahi’s braid.

“Sorry for coming without calling or anything,” Suga says lamely. Asahi seems to snap out of whatever stupor he was in.

“It’s okay! The company is, uh, appreciated. Take a seat on the couch— or in the kitchen— or the floor— wait, not the floor—”

“Asahi.” Suga smiles.

“Right, sorry,” He says sheepishly. “Just, y’know, it’s been a while.” Suga’s smile slips a bit as he nods, guilty.

“I’m the one that should be apologizing. I should’ve visited after—”

“Suga, you know that isn’t true. You couldn’t help it, it wasn’t safe. I understand, really,” Asahi smiles; Suga tries to find it in himself to return it. “Anyways, let me make you some tea. Jasmine okay?”

“Sure.” He makes his way to the dining table, taking his place at the familiar chair. Habits like these didn’t break, even after such a long time. Suga sits in silence for a bit, letting the familiarity wash over him. For a moment, he can pretend that Daichi is sitting next to him and Noya is arguing with Asahi over what kind of tea to make. He listens to the sounds of Asahi preparing their drinks, the lighting of the gas stove, the scraping of the kettle against the stove’s grail. The noise always drove Daichi crazy, he remembers. Asahi, too, he realizes, seeing the man wince as he adjusts it over the fire.

“So,” Asahi says, settling in the chair across from him. “It’s great to see you, Suga. Can I, uh, help you with something?” Suga knows what he means is  _ “what the hell are you doing here?” _ but he’s too polite to say so.

Shaking his head, Suga answers, “I don’t know, really. Sort of came here without thinking. I just—I couldn’t go home.” His voice drops to a whisper at the end, realizing what he’d unconsciously done.

“Ah,” Is all Asahi says. The knowing glint in his eyes tells Suga he’s waiting for him to elaborate.

Suga tightens his grip on the towel around his shoulders. The heating of the apartment has reduced the sensation of the icy rain to a distant chill; now he relishes the feeling of security that comes with the fabric, like a child. He inhales. When he exhales, the words begin to pour out.

“Everything is just still so  _ him _ , you know? I can’t do anything without thinking about him. I can’t even go through his things. I—I’ve tried, but it’s too much every time. Everything reminds me of him even though it’s been an entire year and it’s like some part of me hopes he’s still—” Suga stops abruptly, seeing the quaking in Asahi’s shoulders, his face buried into his hands. Slowly, the dots connect in Suga’s mind. “Oh, Asahi, I am so  _ fucking _ stupid, I’m so sorry—”

“N-No, I—It’s okay,” Asahi hiccups. Suga only frowns, reaching over awkwardly to rub his back. “It i-isn’t the same for m-me, so I sh-shouldn’t be—” He stops himself, taking several shuddering breaths. Suga watches him in silence, the guilt in his gut growing heavier as he watches his friend struggle to regain his composure.

“You’re allowed to miss him,” he softly says.

“I know, but he isn’t…” Asahi trails off, and Suga hears the unspoken word:  _ Dead.  _ Noya isn’t dead, like Daichi is. Noya isn’t gone for good, just locked up in a cell. The things Suga would give to have Daichi alive and miserable rather than a ghost buried six feet under, with no tangible closure.

“Then you haven’t gone to see him?” Suga quickly asks, trying to steer the conversation away from himself.

Asahi shakes his head no. Suga sighs in both relief and pity.

“Good,” he breathes. “I-I mean—”

“I know,” Asahi says softly. “‘It would put us all at risk,’” He says, repeating the phrase that was all too familiar to the both of them.

“It would put us all at risk,” Suga echoes softly. Every fingerprint, every physical feature of each Yakuza member, (presumed) dead or alive, was documented in the Miyagi Penitentiary Institute’s database, no doubt put there by Ushijima himself. Even with their new identities, waltzing into a federal prison was far too dangerous.

They both jump as the tea kettle begins to whistle, the high-pitched shriek filling the small apartment. They can’t help but laugh at each other as they both rise from their chairs at the same time.

“I’ll get it,” Suga says, gently pushing Asahi back down. He doesn’t protest.

Suga kills the fire, and the sound of the whistle immediately dies down to silence. He pours the hot water over the two cups of tea leaves Asahi has already set out, mixing in two teaspoons of sugar for Asahi’s, three for his own.

“Nice to see that your housewifely instincts are still as sharp as ever,” Asahi jokes. Suga lets himself smile as he stirs the contents of each cup with a spoon.

“Hard habit to break,” Suga says, making his way back to the table. Asahi accepts his drink with two hands, nodding his thanks. They sit without speaking for a bit, taking slow sips and listening to the rain, which has now slowed to a drizzle, pitter-patter against the windows.

“I’m a hypocrite,” Suga says, cradling his tea but not drinking it.

“What do you mean?”

“...I saw him today.”

A pregnant pause.

“You mean Daichi? Like, his grave?”

Suga nods mutely.

“That’s… good.” Asahi says, but it sounds strained.

“I’m sorry,” Suga whispers. “It isn’t fair. But I— for a year, I stayed away. An entire year. I know it shouldn’t be that big of a deal, I mean, there isn’t even a body buried there, it’s just a slab of marble—”

“Hey.” He looks up, tearing his gaze from the cup to Asahi. “I’m not mad, Suga. And visiting his gravesite versus me visiting my incarcerated boyfriend are two different things,” he says gently. Suga nods, the guilt in his chest ebbing just a fraction. “Besides, you made sure no one saw you, right?”

And then the shame is back, full force. Suga opens his mouth to agree, but then a head of bright orange hair crosses his mind.

“...Not exactly,” He sits back, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Suga…”

“I know, I know—”

“If he recognized—”

“He didn’t.” Asahi flinches at Suga’s sudden change in tone. “Sorry,” Suga immediately says. “I didn’t mean to snap,” he sighs.

“It’s okay—” But Asahi’s consolation is interrupted by the loud squeal of chair legs against the linoleum. The words die in his throat when Suga stands abruptly, the tea in his still untouched cup sloshing about.

“I should go,” Suga says quickly. He balls up the towel around his shoulders and practically throws it into Asahi’s chest, muttering his thanks and making a beeline for the door.

“Suga, please wait—!”

But now he already has one foot out the door. He pauses, turning to face Asahi, who stands helplessly in the hallway.

“We miss you. I’m not asking you to come back, but… Just don’t be a stranger, yeah?” And with that, Suga is running across the parking lot to his car, water splashing with every step he takes. It begins to rain harder, sheet of water now coming in a torrential downpour.

“...Yeah,” Asahi sighs, leaning against the doorway.

**_ If only it were that easy. _ **

* * *

**Starbux, Store #673**

**12:56**

“Have a nice day!” Hinata chirps as the door swings shut behind the customer with a melodic chime of bells. Now the cafe is empty, save for the two employees and uninhabited furniture. Hinata lets his smile fade a bit, but perks up immediately his coworker walks through the backroom door.

“Tsukishima, your turn at the regis—”

“I know,” The man quips, adjusting his glasses. He grumbles when Tsukishima rudely strides past him, almost knocking him over. It wasn’t the easiest sharing his shift with such a grumpy person, but Hinata made the most of it. If anything, he was sure Tsukishima was learning to tolerate him more and more as the days passed, possibly even inching towards friendship.

“What’re you grinning about, shrimp?”

Okay, nevermind. He was just an ass.

“Nothing!” Hinata smiles sweetly.

He takes a rag and begins to wipe down the tables for the fifth time that day, whistling along to the music as he does so. He pretends not to feel Tsukishima’s annoyed glances directed his way as he polishes the already pristine surfaces. If he wanted Hinata to be quiet, he’d have to ask.

“Slow day, huh?” Hinata muses to no one in particular.

The blond only grunts from his position behind the counter, looking at something on his phone. Hinata was used to being ignored—he only got a response out of his coworker six out of ten times, and that was on a good day. He’d just about given up asking Tsukishima about his life outside of work; he was convinced his coworker was an emotionless coffee-making robot at this point.

After making his rounds with the rag, Hinata sighs heavily, taking a seat in one of the many unoccupied chairs. Without meaning to, his mind wanders back to the cemetery stranger. He hadn’t gotten the man’s name, as he had stood and left without a single word. Hinata had sensed that conversation was the last thing the man wanted, so he’d let him go. Not that he was obligated to keep Hinata company, or anything. 

Plenty of people didn’t match Hinata’s hyper-social energy, so he was used to brushing people like that off. Except that this one is different. After a year of no visitors for 893—no, Daichi— someone shows up out of nowhere? Now Hinata is  _ dying _ to know who the visitor is. Had there been a reason for him never visiting before? How did he know Daichi? How had Daichi died?

Feeling guilty for wondering about things that were none of his business, anyway, Hinata scrubs away the thoughts.

Hinata guesses it was silly of him to think that his family and 893—no, Daichi—were related in any way, much less that himself and Daichi’s griever would have some sort of connection. Maybe he’d imagined the man’s sadness, if only to fulfill his own fantasies.

“You look like someone just killed your dog,” comes Tsukishima’s voice from the counter. Hinata jerks out of his stupor, mustering up a weak laugh on impulse.

“Wow, Stingyshima, that’s the most words you’ve said to me in a row before!” He forces enthusiasm into his voice. The blond rolls his eyes before turning his attention back to staring out the window. It’s been drizzling and gray outside since earlier this morning, which did nothing to attract customers, as their shop survived mainly on light foot traffic.

“Hmph, shouldn’t you be helping close instead of playing on your phone?” Hinata asks indignantly. He may have been used to being ignored, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

“Whatever,” Tsukishima only mutters. “Corporate’s gonna shut this shithole down soon anyways.” And with that, he pulls off his apron and disappears into the backroom.

“Jeez, who pissed in his cheerios this morning?” Hinata grumbles, though Tsukishima’s words did plant a seed of worry in Hinata’s stomach. He knew his coworker was one to tell it like it was, no matter how hard of a pill his words were to swallow.

It was one of many reasons why Kinoshita, their manager, asked that Hinata work the counter as often as possible; for some reason, when Tsukishima took orders, the tip jar looked much less full at the end of the day. Besides, Tsukishima was actually pretty good at the actual “making coffee” thing. Being friendly with strangers came as easily to Hinata as breathing, making working at the counter a breeze. Sure, counting cash and handing out change had come with a bit of a learning curve, but the tips more than made up for his financial mishaps.

None of that would matter, though, once corporate shut this place down for good. Hinata would’ve been lying if he said he hadn’t seen it coming. Ever since the opening of that hip indie cafe/nightclub down the block, they had been steadily losing customers. It was called the Crow’s Foot, or something like that. Next to its flashy neon sign, this place paled in comparison with its peeling window stickers of faded advertisements for the latest seasonal drink. To be fair, Hinata did acknowledge that the coffee tasted like overly sweetened liquid crap. (And that said something, coming from him.)

Sure, they still managed to break even with the foot traffic from the morning rush hour. People would gladly take shitty coffee over no coffee at six in the morning, it seemed. But the number of customers was steadily dwindling as the Crow’s Foot’s popularity grew. Very soon, the few regulars would no longer keep the store afloat. Hell, Hinata sensed that half of them came out of pity.

As the days passed, Hinata slowly came to accept—and dread—the possibility of losing his job soon. This location was just one of hundreds, after all. Soon, the CFO, whoever that was, would decide they needed to cut their losses and let Hinata go with a half-assed letter and a severance package that just barely satisfied prefecture law’s minimum.

The rest of the day passes, for the most part, uneventfully as always. The last hour of business is always the least busy, so Hinata and Tsukishima have already chucked their aprons off by four, deciding to go about their closing rituals half an hour early.

Hinata is lifting the last chair when the doorbell chimes, signalling a customer. Tsukishima is in the back room, having also assumed that there would be no more business for today. So, Hinata hurries to the counter, throwing the clock a glance. Shit. It was still twenty minutes till closing. At least the beanbags were still out; if the person wanted to stay, they could.

“Hi, welcome!” Hinata says cheerfully, emerging from behind the upside down chairs. (Tsukishima made it a habit to tease him about how he wouldn’t be able to see him during closing if it weren’t for his orange tuft of wild hair.)

The woman doesn’t reply; there is just the soft click of heels that echo over the background music, eerily loud. When Hinata approaches the counter, he sees that the customer is wearing a black trench coat and a deep orange scarf with sunglasses concealing her eyes. On anyone else, the thick coat and gaudy color would look ridiculous. But on her, the coat flares and hugs her figure in just the right places, accentuating subtle curves and hinting at the length of her legs, and the scarf is somehow pulled off, despite its bright color.

She slips off her sunglasses - tortoise patterned frames - and smiles, but makes no move to look at the menu. Maybe she was a regular, then? Hinata only worked weekdays, she could have been one of those young entrepreneurs that worked their own hours in the big city, frequenting the cafe on the weekend.

“Evening,” She greets neutrally.

“What can I get for you?” Hinata asks automatically.

“I’d like to see your coworker.”

“Huh?” Hinata can’t help it, the exclamation escapes his mouth.

_ Oh my god, is she— _

He never thought of Tsukishima to be the kind for a girl like, well, her. If he was being completely honest, he thought Tsukishima was 1) gay, 2) dating the freckled regular that always got hot chocolate, extra whip, and 3) way out of this woman’s league.

“Oh, is Tsukishima not here right now?” she asks, unfazed by Hinata’s silence.

“I- No- Sorry, how do you know him?”

“We’re… business partners.”

Hinata doesn’t buy it, but picks his jaw up off the floor and marches into the back room dutifully.

“Oi, four-eyes, your girlfriend’s here to see you!”

Tsukishima looks up from his phone—seriously, Candy Crush?—with his brows furrowed.

“Funny,” he mutters, immediately turning his attention back to the device.

“Uh, okay, not your girlfriend? She said you guys were ‘business partners?’ Little shorter than you—actually, maybe not with those heels—really pretty black hair, looks like she could murder your family and get away with it but still look good—”

“Tsukishima.”

“AH!” Hinata jumps, whirling around to see the woman standing right behind him. His face flushes immediately, sputtering over his words. “Y-You’re not allowed back here!”

“Apologies, but I really must speak to him. And thank you for your kind words,” She smiles, almost as if amused, then directs her attention back to the other man.

“Kiyoko-san…?” He’s standing now, still with that stony expression but paying more attention to this Kiyoko woman than he ever has to a customer. She offers him a curt nod.

“I need you to come with me.”

“Uh, can’t this wait until after work?” Tsukishima asks, eyes sliding over to Hinata, who feels very much like a third wheel now.

“Not like you guys had business. Come on,” She says, already turning on her heel to leave.

“Uh, miss, can’t Tsukishima just help me finish closing—”

“Sorry, was I not clear? I need both of you,” She smiles, something in the glint of her eye sending a shudder through Hinata’s bones.

“What?” both employees exclaim.

“Kiyoko-san, what’s the meaning of thi—”

“Tsukishima, it’s better you ask questions later. I thought we were over this?”

“Tch. You’ve been my boss for what, a year, and—” Hinata’s eyes widen.

“Woah, boss? Wait, don’t—” He gasps dramatically. “Don’t tell me you’re two-timing, four-eyes!”

“Shut up, shrimp! Kiyoko-san—”

“Please, Hinata-kun, you’re making it sound like Tsukishima here has been living a double life. He just has another part-time job, that’s all,” she explains kindly. “Now, if you would both come with me.”

Tsukishima huffs, following Kiyoko and grabbing the shorter boy by the collar along his way.

“Hey—!”

Hinata doesn’t really know how, but the next thing he knows, he’s in the backseat of a BMW he feels way too poor to even be sitting in.

“Uh, can I ask where we’re going?”

“Just down the street,” Kiyoko says offhandedly. And sure enough, they do drive to the end of the street, right in front of that new flashy club that’s been taking their business.

“Why are we here…?”

Suddenly, a thud reverberates throughout the floor of the vehicle. A cylinder of concrete is rising around them—no, they’re sinking into the ground on a circular platform, he realizes. A perfect cutout of concrete around the car descends slowly underground, and Tsukishima and Kiyoko sit calmly as if this is everyday business.

“What the hell? Okay, I wanna know what’s going on. Listen, you seem like a nice lady, and Tsukishima and I may not get along but—”

“Hinata-kun.” The edge in her voice cuts him short for some reason.

“Y-Yes?”

“Calm down, would you?” She turns around in the driver’s seat, taking off her sunglasses to look him in the eyes. And wow, she really was pretty—

“Kiyoko-san, in all honesty, this really wasn’t the best choice for a hostage. He’s a plain civilian,” Tsukishima sighs. And just like that, Hinata is losing his shit again.

“ _ Hostage?!”  _ he exclaims, scrambling for the car door handle. He tries it, but to no avail.

“Jesus christ,” Kiyoko breathes through her nose slowly. If Hinata hadn’t been hyperventilating, he might have noticed Tsukishima’s devilish grin and his effort to hold his laughter in the midst of his panic.

“Please, ma’am, just take my wallet, take my shoes, I don’t want to die—”

“ _Hinata_!”

“Wait, how do you even know my name?”

“ _ That’s _ what you’re worried about? I— Jeez, you really are something. Let me put this as simply as I can, Hinata-kun.”

“Are you guys some sort of drug dealers? Look, I’m not into that stuff, but I won’t tell if you just let me go—!” Hinata let out an ungracious squeak as the ground beneath them shudders; he realizes they’ve come to a stop. All around them is darkness. When did they descend so low? Were they going to leave him for dead down here? If he craned his neck up, he could just see the small pinpoint that was the hold they had entered through. It was nothing but a speck; they must have been miles underground.

“Come with us,” Kiyoko says simply. Hinata has no choice but to oblige, ambling out of the car as the other two easily step out into the darkness. For a second, nothing happens. There’s just the darkness and the eerie click of Kiyoko’s heels, which echoes in the vast expanse. As far as Hinata can see, which isn’t much, there is no end to the void-like place. He was, put simply, scared shitless.

“Yacchan, it’s us.” Kiyoko’s voice rings a distance away, making Hinata leap nearly a foot into the air.

There’s a scuffling of boots, then a bright beam of light shines right onto Kiyoko’s face with a click. She doesn’t even flinch at the brightness, only sighs with a hint of disappointment.

“Sorry Kiyoko-san, no Yacchan today! Just me!” The shine of the car’s exterior faintly reflects the light back onto the light-bearer, revealing a man with a buzzcut dressed in a wife-beater and oil-stained cargo pants, a flannel tied around his waist. He grins self-assuredly, jabbing a thumb at himself as he speaks.

“Tanaka-kun, what a pleasure,” Kiyoko says flatly. Hinata watches in amazement as the man somehow puffs his chest up even more, seemingly proud to even have been acknowledged.

“Oi, oi, who’s this?” he snarls, and suddenly the beam is in his eyes. Hinata throws up an arm to shield his eyes, cringing at the harsh light.

“My coworker,” Tsukishima answers, bored.

“Ooh, fresh meat?”

“Tanaka-kun, we’ve been over this, please don’t intimidate the new recruits,” Kiyoko says, walking forward.

Tsukishima follows and so does Hinata, but with much more hesitancy. He didn’t have another choice, did he?

“And why exactly haven’t you exacted disinfectant measures yet?” Tsukishima says, to Tanaka, raising an eyebrow.

“Tch, that’s no way to talk to your  _ kyodai _ ,” He humphs, swinging the flashlight around to shine directly at Tsukishima’s face, making his glasses reflect the brilliance right back, turning into solid white rectangles. With some amusement, Hinata notices Tanaka squint his eyes slightly at the light.

“Tanaka, please, we don’t have time for this,” Kiyoko interjects.

“Right on it Kiyoko-san! Lemme radio Chika real quick!” Tsukishima smirks, and Kiyoko only nods.

“Who’s Chi—” Hinata begins to question, but stops dead in his own words.

The lights come on, illuminating the entire room in a purple was. He stares at Tanaka’s grin, which is  _ glowing. _

The white of Tsukishima’s shirt, the ankles of his own socks that peek out of his sneakers—they all stand out, neon.

“Woah,” Hinata breathes.

“Yup. UV lights. Helps disinfect anything you might bring in here with you—STDs, anthrax, a cold, y’know.”

“They do  _ not  _ work on STDs, idiot,” Tsukishima mutters, pushing up his glasses.

_ Anthrax?  _ Hinata wonders, his confusion and skepticism of this group of strangers growing stronger by the minute. He glances around, but there doesn’t seem to be an exit in sight. Tanaka seemed… oddly nice, Tsukishima was still his removed self, yet seemed comfortable in this environment, and Kiyoko? Kiyoko was scary. And really pretty, but mostly scary.

Besides, if these people wanted to kill him, wasn’t this too much work? Or maybe he was being trafficked. Weren’t there creepy old guys with a thing for young boys? And as a ginger, he was probably worth quite a bit. Not that he’d googled his worth on the black market, or anything.

Suddenly, a hissing noise catches his attention. He whirls around to the source of the noise—a door, now illuminated by the ultraviolet glow. He realizes this is where Tanaka must have come from, where Kiyoko was leading him.

“This way.”

The three of them follow after her, Tanaka must more enthusiastically than the other two.

There’s the faint thump, thump, thump of a trap beat, growing louder as they near the door. They reach it, and oddly enough, there is no fancy lock mechanism. Just a plain handle, which Kiyoko pulls open with ease.

Hinata finds himself struck with the dreamscape-like nature of their surroundings—an extremely plain, white hallway, like something out of a movie. As the door clicks behind them, a robotic whir follows. And then the strangest thing happens. Something  _ speaks _ .

“ _ Welcome home, babe! If you’re hearing this, the system says you’re healthy _ —”

“Stop,” Kiyoko says, her words echoing down the empty hallway. The recording immediately comes to a halt obediently.

For some reason, Tanaka looks apologetic.

“Sorry, Chika decided it’s time to redo the ID software, so he’s been tinkering around with the logins, he must have got yours switched up with Dai—”

“It’s fine.”

A heavy silence has fallen over the four of them, now.

“W-Who was that?” Hinata asks, looking around the bare walls warily. They’re completely smooth, no indication of a speaker anywhere.

“Just a recording.” Tsukishima says, his voice hard, the expression in his face making it clear this was not open for discussion.  _ Odd,  _ Hinata thinks. But then again, there’d been nothing but surprises today, so that was expected.

Just as he’s about to ask how much longer this damn hallway goes, Hinata sights an elevator in the distance, a pair of transparent plexiglass doors sliding open as they near. The elevator is similarly barren, smooth white walls and no button panel. Once they all clamber in, they immediately begin to ascend slowly.

Now the music grows louder as they rise, and Hinata doesn’t know what else to do other than look from calm face to calm face around the elevator.

“Okay, so what’s going—”

“Hinata-kun, how many people are buried in Japan?”

“ _ W-What _ ?”

“Answer my question, please.”

“Uh, three hundred thousand,” he says, taking a wild guess. He tries to gauge the woman’s expression, but her sunglasses hide any hint to what she’s playing at..

“Cremation is overwhelmingly popular, as you probably know. The occurence of burials is no more than two percent of the population,” She answers.

“...Okay? I’m sorry, that’s great and all, but why—”

“Your family is part of that small percentage, correct?” Now she has to raise her voice slightly, as the pounding beat thrums closer as the elevator climbs; now Hinata can hear the melody of a popular rap song.

Except now the drumming is in his ears, because he can’t remember the last time someone brought his family up in conversation. It had always been a facet of his life that he kept out of relationships as much as possible, for fear of the pitying gazes he’d felt at their wake.

“...Just who exactly are you all?” Hinata asks, backing into the back wall of the elevator. Tanaka opens his mouth, but closes it abruptly upon seeing Kiyoko’s narrowed stare.

“I know you’re probably confused right now, Hinata-kun, but if you would let us explain in time, it would be best,” She says, voice carefully neutral although she now has to shout over the music.

“No, I want to know what the hell—” Hinata is cut off when the elevator doors open, and the music is suddenly tenfold in volume, as if they’re in the pit of a live concert. His eyes widen at the sight before him—the elevator has deposited them at the uppermost row of a stadium, overlooking chaos.

He numbly steps out of the elevator with the other three, half in fear of the ominous doors trapping him there forever, half in intrigue of the scene before him.

There are two levels, the top of which they are at. This level slopes downwards to a balcony, which overlooks the lower level, seemingly filled with courts. Honestly it was hard to tell what kind of court—people are packed end to end, bouncing in time to the beat and covering every inch of floorspace. It takes him a moment to register that this must have been an abandoned sports area of some sort.

The upper level is much more calm. Despite the thundering noise of music, it seems more like a high-end club than anything. Groups of fold-out seats are removed to make space for the partygoers to mingle, some sitting with one another, some preferring to stand in cliques.

Orange seems to be the theme here. Orange fluorescents strobe on and off to the beat of the music, punctuated by a blacklight, which inverts the colors of the scene for a dizzying split-second. Tangerine colored lamps sit at small tables meant for two, which line the edge of the balcony of seats.

Well dressed businessmen and women litter the tables, sipping glasses of expensive-looking drinks. A bar interrupts the length of tables, equipped with two bartenders dressed smartly in suits and juggling shot glasses and flaming alcohol. They’re the kind of mixologists Hinata has only seen at his friend Bokuto’s twenty-first birthday—Bokuto was  _ filthy _ rich, hiring top-rate chefs and, of course, doing the same for the booze.

On the court, it seems to be an entirely different scene, resembling more of a rave than a high-end night club. Hinata wouldn’t have been surprised if any of the partygoers on the lower level weren’t inebriated to some extent.

“Well?”

Hinata’s eyes, widened to the size of dinner plates, snap to Kiyoko, who is turned, now a few paces in front of him, looking at him expectantly. He stands frozen, sense still overwhelmed by the chaos surrounding him.

“See ya around, kid.” Tanaka has to lean close to his ear and nearly shout the words, clapping a hand onto his shoulder lightly before slipping into the crowd with ease.

“C’mon, Hinata-kun, I’m sure this isn’t really your scene,” Kiyoko urges, also raising her voice slightly in order to be heard. He vaguely wonders if that was supposed to be a backhanded insult, but gladly follows her, attracted by the prospect of a quieter headspace. Tsukishima walks with them, only to break away from them, making a beeline for the bar. Hinata watches in amazement as he slips behind the bar and begins mixing drinks with flourish, as if it’s a second nature.

Hinata can’t help but point an accusing finger at the blond, who is already producing intricate drinks with ease, much more ease than which he manned the espresso machine with or steamed almond milk,

“So he does have another job!” The words leave his mouth before he can think twice, not considering how rude or childish they might seem to Kiyoko. Fortunately, she doesn’t tease him, only smiles amicably and leans in to say something.

“I guess you could say that? The cafe was really his side job, this is where Tsukishima does his best work,” She explains, gesturing to the man. Hinata can’t help but stare a moment longer, entranced by the lightning fast working of his arms, mixing cocktails for the wealthy-looking clientele seated at the barstools. And all the while, Tsukishima maintains the same bored expression. Not surprising, Hinata thinks.

The boy almost runs headfirst into Kiyoko’s back as she stops, hand placed on an area of blank wall. Or, at least, it seems blank. When she gives it a small nudge, a rectangle of orange light illuminates the space that is eye level to her. Hinata should really stop being surprised by what kind of technology these people had, but he still stares as an orange beam of light traces Kiyoko’s retinas. Amazingly, the woman doesn’t flinch.

“You coming?”

Hinata hesitates. The day’s chaos flashes through his mind, every ridiculous event and person a solid reason as to why he  _ shouldn’t _ , why he should turn and try to escape while he can.

_ “Your family is part of that small percentage, correct?” _

He nods, stepping through the doorway.

Great, more darkness. The door slides shut with a grinding noise behind him, the last sliver of light disappearing. Soon after, though, a light clicks on. Hinata doesn’t need to squint as long as he doesn’t look directly at the bare bulb.

But of course, he doesn’t look at the bulb. Doesn’t spare it a glance, actually. Because in front of him sits a familiar face. A familiar face, which dons an eyepatch.

“Hello, Hinata-kun,” Cemetery man smiles. “I’m afraid I didn’t properly introduce myself the last time we met. My name is Sugawara Koushi, and my husband is buried next to your family.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oyabun: the top of the chain of command of the Yakuza.  
> saiko-komon: senior advisor or administrator; directly under the Oyabun in the chain of command.  
> wakagashira: regional boss; comparable to the captain of each school  
> kyodai: more of a slang term, "big brother" in a sense
> 
> tumblr: hairbleachwhore  
> twitter: glutenfreeroach


End file.
